War? Poem by Matthew J. A. Bryan

The sounds of a thousand guns pierce the silent night,
It is hard to sleep with men dying only feet away,
My nightmares are a bitter representation of war,
Every day the nightmare I die in becomes more of a reality.

Machine guns cut down my friends and mates by my side,
I thank the lord each day that I haven’t been killed,
Yet I curse him for allowing me to live
As death would be a release from the screams of terror in my nightmares.

But when I get home I will be welcomed as a hero,
The cuts and scars of war will all heal when I am thanked (!) ,
And for what? Killing people from other nations who themselves have families,
Who themselves have been tricked into the hell-trenches of war.

I wait for the guns to stop firing each day, it doesn’t happen,
I am still waiting, still here in my home, old and frail,
Years have passed but the scars have never healed,
Each night in my nightmares, the scars never heal…